


Tell Me Something True

by bookstvnerdlove



Series: A Story of Us [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstvnerdlove/pseuds/bookstvnerdlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>follow up to Candlelight, Interrupted. Emma finishes her conversation. Sexytimes ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me Something True

Emma stands outside the door to their room at Granny's, power now restored and limited damage to clean up from the storm. There are just a few downed tree branches and thankfully no structural damage to the municipal buildings. The sun is just starting to peek up along the horizon and through the clouds. While she is exhausted after a long night of dealing with Regina and the power company and all of the weird _real world_ things that happened, the thought that Killian is waiting for her in their room comforts her. Although, he’s also told her that he finds sleep elusive on nights when she is not next to him.

(She's the savior and has magic and a sheriff's badge and arms with 'sick guns' as her son's New York friends used to say. She knows he worries, though. Or…if worry isn't the right word, she knows that he wants to be by her side in any capacity, even if she is barking out orders in a fight or following his lead in a waltz, though the second is unlikely to happen again. She knows that he hates it when she leaves him behind, even though in the case of last night there was nothing that he could have done to help.)

She leans her head against the door, hesitating to just turn the doorknob and go inside. She knows that  _she_ is the one who started the conversation, before, back when candlelight and cocoa, and the soft tingling of his lips pressed against hers dropped her inhibitions. In the heat of the moment, it was easy to  _start_  the conversation. Now, though, in the (almost) cold light of day and no longer drugged with need she feels almost shy. She does not know how to start  _talking._

(She wants him to know that she accepts all parts of him. That she knows exactly who he is, and what has scarred and changed him. That even though he fights at her side now, she does not expect the experiences gained during his hundreds of years seeking vengeance to wash away with her bright and shiny new love. He is all of the pieces that come together to make up his soul, and she does not want him to hide them.) 

\- - -

He can hear her pacing in the hallway followed by the soft bump of what he assumes to be her head against the door. It was enough to wake him from an admittedly light slumber. His years at sea creating habits hard to break; first as a lieutenant whose structured time meant waking at dawn, and then as a pirate, sleeping only deeply enough to rest his eyes but light enough to be ready for battle at a moment's notice. 

He wants to call to her, to tell her to come inside to their room, to reassure her that whatever it is she needs to say to him, he will listen. If somebody asked him to name only one thing that he knows about Emma Swan, it would be that she cannot be rushed.

(Oh, but he likes the thought. _Their room_. It gives him a thrill when he thinks about what it means for something to belong to _both_ of them. He tries not to imagine life too far into the future, but sometimes he cannot help but to think about the things that might come next. Barring, of course, more curses and battles and demons and witches with scores to settle.)

When she finally opens the door, slowly, as if to not wake him, he pulls himself to a sitting position on the bed and says, "Come on in, love, I'm already awake."

She makes a short huffing sound as she pushes the door fully open and walks inside, and he can feel his lips curling into a smirk and says, "Sorry to disappoint you."

He can see, even though the room is barely glowing with morning light, the firm set of her lips that usually accompanies her patented side-eye glare, pinning her gaze on him and replying, "I'm not disappointed, Killian. I'm just..."

She trails off and he can feel the tension of her hesitation sucking up the air in the room so he does what he knows best, and distracts her from the various directions in which her busy brain must be heading. He pats the space in the bed next to him, and says, "Come here, love, and tell me about your night."

She smiles as he watches her pull off her boots and peel away the layers of her clothes until she’s only wearing that thin white top he loves so much and her delightful underthings. _Lingerie._ (He finds that he likes the word very much. He likes the way it rolls off his tongue as smoothly as the garments slide off her body.)

\- - -

She sighs and walks over to the bed but instead of sliding in to align her body next to his, she straddles him, hip to hip, and immediately his body jolts from slumberous to _aware._ When his eyes meet hers, that knowing gleam from the night before returning, she nods and gives a small nudge of her hips. It’s not too much pressure as to really create friction, but enough to that he lets out a small puff of air and a groan, as his hand flies to her hip.

His fingers dig into her skin, gripping tightly as she leans down to rub her lips along his, brushing back and forth lightly until he grabs her bottom lip with his teeth and tugs her closer until they reach the perfect angle lazy, open mouths, and tongues to tangle gently. She can feel his disappointment when she pulls away, but she knows that this is not something that to share without using actual words.

She reaches down to her hips, where his hook has joined his other hand, and she grabs the brace to bring it up to chest level, just as she did back in the Enchanted Forest at the tavern with _other_ Hook, _old_ Hook.

“What are you doing?” His voice is rough with sleep and desire, and maybe a tinge of frustration, as he punctuates his words with a small upward thrust of his hips.

 “Don’t you want to know what it is that I said to you; well, _other_ you back then?” She traces her hand along his hook in a similar, familiar pattern, watching his eyes as they follow her movements.

“Not particularly, darling,” he bites out, and she experiences a twinge of pain in her heart, remembering that it hurt him to watch her with _him_.

She leans down, touches her forehead to his, and whispers, “It was because he was you, but also _not_ you at the same time.”

She knows that probably makes no sense to him, but it is the best way to explain the _freedom_ she felt in that tavern. He does not say anything in response, just nuzzles his nose against hers as his hand wanders up from her hip to slide under her shirt his finger lightly tracing along the lacy ridges of her bra.

“He didn’t treat me like I am _breakable_ ,” she continues. He rewards her with a sharp twist of her nipple, through the fabric, a jolt of pleasure zinging down through her body.

“Like that?” He growls, and God, _yes_ , that’s exactly it, she thinks as she seeks balance by grabbing the headboard, her head thrown back as he brings his hook up and rips right through her shirt.

Later, when she’s on her stomach and his hand is threaded tightly in her hair and he’s brought her to the brink so many times to the point where she’s pleading for release, she murmurs, “I’m not going to run away from you again, Killian.”

She’s sure that he heard her moments after they both let go, when she feels his smile against her neck.


End file.
